Tallied Sleeves
by Ridiculosity
Summary: It was an inconvenience, really. He had only one tally, and that was for his mother, mercifully reciprocated in black. Inconvenience though it was (and he could not emphasise how dangerous it was to have your weakness tallied on your arm), it made absolutely no sense that Molly Hooper would so diligently hide her arm away from him. [Falling in love causes a tally on your arm AU.]
1. Red

**This was a prompt on tumblr, and I cannot for the life of me remember by who. The idea being every time you fall in love, a tally appears on your arm. More will be revealed inside.**

 **And yes, I will finish my ghost AU. I promise, promise, promise.**

* * *

Some thought of it as a blessing. People like that were generally idiots. Sherlock was neutral: he didn't care as long as more tallies didn't appear on his arms.

There had been very little to love in his life. His first tally mark appeared sometime around fifth grade, when his mother comforted him after being bullied. Twelve year old Sherlock was not as perturbed by the lack of tallies appearing for his parents as eight year old Sherlock had been. Eight year old Sherlock had wondered whether he loved his parents, whether he was supposed to, and why he did not. Twelve year old Sherlock had accepted, through Darwin and through other philosophers: family units were arbitrary. They existed through sociological complexities, and their existence or lack was not a source of alarm or worry.

But when Redbeard comforted him (some children had written 'FREAK' on his forehead. Childish. Unoriginal. _Devastating)_ Sherlock's first tally appeared. And it went, almost immediately black. It was nice to know that his mother loved him, that she had a tally that corresponded his own.

He never showed it to her. He didn't feel like it was necessary, and even lesser that it should be said out loud.

He never got a tally for his father, and never one for Mycroft. He suspected that Mycroft's hand was blank – it seemed very plausible. His father demanded affection, but Sherlock would never be able to foster up love. It would not happen.

He had one unexplained tally which had occurred when both his father and Mycroft were in the room, reacting to stimulus in a way that certainly did not bring out a surge of affection and care. He was confused, because the tally turned black almost instantly, and all he had been doing was petting Redbeard. It confused him for a while, until he realised that Redbeard, after all, loved very easily.

The theory was confirmed when Redbeard had to be "put down." His parents didn't bother fooling him about the farm that he went to and played in until the end of his days. The tally for Redbeard turned into a scar.

And Sherlock made his decisions where love was concerned.

Sherlock Holmes being capable of love was enough to make him raise his eyebrow; consider the fact that he might be making himself a veritable target for the more intelligent minded. But that the one he loved was someone like his mother was of great comfort: his mother was not an obvious option when dealing with a James Bond-esque villain, they always aimed for something as insipid as romantic attachments.

In University, his only friend was Victor Trevor. The slew of lovers counted for less than nothing, and Trevor didn't come close to leaving him with a mark on his arm.

That was what had happened in the first year of his higher education, anyway.

Sherlock scoffed at the idea that someone could have more than four or five tally marks. He didn't believe in that anymore than he believed in God. You couldn't love twenty people at the same time, and you couldn't do it equally – eventually, some of the marks _had_ to fade.

And then _she_ happened.

* * *

When Molly Hooper walked into his life, she wore full sleeves. She wore full sleeves, a nervous smile, and a tendency to bite her lip.

It was a coffee shop – he rarely took the time to deduce his servers, but she was smiling nervously at him, and it wasn't because of him _alone._ She seemed uncomfortable in the setting, uncomfortable in her apron, and more uncomfortable in her name tag.

 _Molly Hooper_

 _How may I serve you?_

"Black," he said.

"Right-o," she said cheerfully. She promptly dropped her pad, and went to collect it. As soon as she picked it up, she dropped her pen.

"Need any help?" he asked sardonically.

"No thanks – um, I'm quite – erm, used to it," she said. She didn't _seem_ to be joking.

Sherlock hummed to himself, considering whether or not he should head to the lab. He wanted to test out an experiment before he tested out the new drug Trevor was bringing him.

"Aren't you in my chemistry class?' she asked.

"Can't be. My chemistry class is for second years. You're not a second year."

"Uh – Does my speech give it away?" she asked with a small laugh.

"No, it's actually your attire. But never mind that."

"Well – um. You're the one who sits – well, - at the back and never – erm, answers, but knows everything, right?" she asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"I – well, um – I'm in an advanced class – for – for a first year, I know," she said. "Professor Dunlop didn't mind. She said my grades – well, my grades – were decent enough for it."

"Professor Dunlop was probably as much an idiot as you are," he said.

Her eyes widened. He noted that she wasn't hurt as he had expected her to be – she was surprised. "Um," she said. "That was… unexpected."

"No need to be shocked, most people are idiotic," said Sherlock, taking his cup as she handed it to him. "Cheers."

He turned around from the campus coffee house, and went to the labs.

"Cheers," he heard her say.

* * *

Sherlock didn't attend most classes, but he found himself often attending Chemistry. Primarily because it was his major, secondarily because Professor Dunlop was the only teacher he could tolerate.

She was sitting there, but not, as he had expected, at the first row. She sat at the edge. Near the window. She smiled at him briefly, a smile he did not return. Her sleeve was a little pulled up – he noted at least two tally marks.

Typical.

She probably loved indiscriminately and had at least ten tallies. He severely disliked people like Molly Hooper. They weren't intelligent, cared _far_ too much. They didn't seem to have any interest in being better – life was a series of stagnancies which ultimately ended up in offspring with Iqs in double digits.

What Sherlock didn't notice was that the tallies were not black.

* * *

"Well, ideally," the girl was saying in class, "Hydrochloric _acid should_ –"

Sherlock frowned at her. It wasn't that Molly Hooper was particularly irksome, it was just that he had been noticing her presence a lot more. She wrote in a small notebook, on her desk, on her hands, on whatever scraps of paper she could find. This wasn't very noticeable – she slipped by most of the class.

Sherlock spotted it because she seemed to give a lot of right answers in class.

She was certainly smarter than a majority of the class, he decided.

* * *

Today, she was wearing a white jumper with cats on it. Her taste was _hideous._

But she didn't seem to care. He often spotted flour on the sides of her clothes as he went out to smoke – maybe from the Coffee House, more likely they came from her own baking habits.

He frowned at her again. She didn't often raise her hand in class – she answered questions very quietly. Childhood anxiety over drawing attention to herself. Perhaps crippling social awkwardness as well – her language was very schooled and careful, tip toeing on what she had to say, what she didn't have to say.

Sherlock turned away arbitrarily. Just because she was the only interesting person in the class didn't mean he should waste his time on her.

* * *

"Black, two sugars, I know," she said when she saw him again.

He nodded without looking at her.

"Oh, hi Melly," she said to a girl behind him. Sherlock texted Trevor without paying her much mind – until he heard:

"Milk and one sugar, I know."

Odd.

* * *

"You been watching that girl a lot?" asked Trevor.

"Yes. And that girl. That boy. All of them – all the time –"

"Yes, I know – your never stopping brain and all that. Give it a rest, Holmes. You like this one particularly. God only knows why, I'd have thought she was as boring as an apple."

* * *

"Oh – um, hey Sherlock," she said.

He nodded.

"What do you need?" she asked.

They were in the middle of a hallway, not in class, not in a coffee house.

"I was wondering if you would run these tests for me, actually," he said.

"Um – Sherlock – this is, well, it's well beyond my level –"

"No, it's not," he said.

"Professor Dunlop –"

"Students are allowed to run whatever experiments they choose, as long as they don't go haywire," he said, speaking over her.

"And cause a zombie apocalypse?" she asked with a small grin.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"The dead do not rise, Molly," he told her.

"Well – um. I had _no_ idea," she said.

He wanted to snap at her, tell her that sarcasm should be left for the professionals – but he allowed it in the face of the fact that she barely fell over her sentences in this conversation.

He frowned. It shouldn't _be_ his job to make this girl comfortable.

She hummed to herself as she kept the paper back. "I'll handle it, Sherlock," she said.

* * *

She _smiled_ to _herself_ a _lot._

Sherlock didn't why. No amount of deduction managed to bring him a concrete answer. He could piece apart her family, her story, her anxieties, her insecurities, everything.

He could never tell _why_ she smiled.

* * *

"Molly Hooper," he said.

She looked up at him, surprised.

"Yeah?" she asked, nervous.

"Don't get too excited," he snapped. "What was the assignment Dunlop wanted?"

"Um – " she shuffled in her bag, and took out a sheet of paper.

"How disgustingly selfless of you," he said. "To give me your copy of the assignment question."

She went red. "I have a soft copy," she said with a small, nervous chuckle.

"I suppose you printed it because you have a penchant for keeping lots of things to write on?" he asked.

She nodded. "How did you know?" she asked, a bit surprised.

His eyes flicked to her arms, where stuff was scribbled all over.

"Call it intuition," he said dryly.

Her sleeve slipped again. He counted three tallies on her arm.

* * *

 _Boring as an apple._

Molly Hooper _wasn't_ interesting.

She was a mess of intelligence and emotions, hiding her tally marks very, _very_ carefully – what he suspected depression during teenage years, a tendency to be very careful around people and what she said, ridiculous jumpers and stupid smiles.

He hadn't had a single conversation with her about what she liked – _baking, telly, books, ice cream –_ but he felt like he knew it all already.

" _Dangerous_ ," a mental voice warned him. It sounded disgustingly like Mycroft.

She wasn't interesting – she was ordinary. She was uncomfortable around her friends, even more around her peers. She stuttered, probably – all those 'um's and 'erm's did indicate that. She was perfectly normal in her unbelonging, even more so in her keen awareness of it.

It was the slinking suspicion that when she was by herself – she was happy – that made him watch her so continuously.

* * *

"Anything interesting today?" he asked her.

"No zombie apocalypses," she said.

"I'm laughing," he said dryly.

Her eyes twinkled. "I'm sure," she said. "Here are the results," she added.

"Excellent." He left without so much as looking at her twice.

* * *

They became _friends._

Beyond Trevor, Molly Hooper became his only other regular human contact. He didn't even need to order at the Coffee House anymore, his coffee was always ready for him when he entered. She smiled and took his money, returned the change, and asked him whether she would be seeing him for class.

He turned up for most of Professor Dunlop's classes: she allowed him a free reign on the lab, which gave him an amount of respect for her and her teaching which could not go unaccounted for. Molly didn't sit next to him during class –but she was always nice enough to run experiments, chat with him a little, and offer him baked goods.

She _liked_ him.

Her pupils dilated. Her pulse was elevated. Her face turned red. Her stammer returned intermittently. It was all very – _obvious._

He didn't mind her company – she was intelligent, she seemed to know what to say to him. Their conversations were interesting – when she wasn't blushing and nervous – she could speak about a variety of subjects, including forensics, chemistry, the piano. She told him she played, he had no idea how good she was.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's experimentation with drugs was becoming something to rival Trevor. He dabbled in whatever he got, his dealers began to evolve.

She knew he smoked. She didn't approve, he could tell. She didn't like it. But she never _said_ anything.

His smoking had already become something uncontrollable anyway. He didn't bother pointing that out to her.

* * *

"No, my social anxiety isn't _that_ bad," she said.

He scoffed, taking a deep drag.

"Must be because of a dead parent. Father, I'm presuming."

"Yes," she said neutrally.

"What happened?" he asked, despite himself.

She paused.

"Lung cancer."

The cigarette glowed in the middle of the night, like a firefly.

* * *

In his third year of Uni, he OD'd the first time.

It wasn't Trevor who brought him back – it was _her._

She brought him back, in tears, calling his name ( _Sherlocksherlocksherlock SHERLOCK - - - - please)._ He woke up to her brown eyes, the way they smiled when no one was looking –

Only this time, they weren't smiling secretly.

In some corner of his extremely hazed mind – he had the sense of having destroyed something profoundly important.

He didn't notice – his mind was too addled – but she was gripping her wrist.

* * *

The second time he OD'd, Trevor called for her. She came, rushing, her face a wild collection of tears and prayers. Trevor didn't know what to do ( _I didn't bring it for him this time, Molly. I promise – I've not been bringing him anything for a while now)._ Molly knew exactly what to do – but Sherlock had a very distinct sense of having killed her in the process.

Around his fourth time, she put her foot down.

"No more, Sherlock," she said quietly.

"Who's commanding?" he sneered.

"No more," she repeated. "Or I leave."

"Idiocy doesn't suit you, Molly," he told her.

"It's not idiotic to have a sense of self preservation," she said.

"Who are you preserving yourself from?" he asked.

"Your drugs," she said. "You're going to kill yourself, and I am going to die everyday to bring you back. And I refuse to die for someone who doesn't have the decency to find a good toxin and a good way out to die."

He noticed the hard light in her eye. He lit a cigarette.

She left the room.

He waited for the savage satisfaction that would come with her return.

She never came back.

* * *

He was a little careful with his highs, after that – Molly would no longer be there to save him. He indulged – he indulged and indulged and indulged. One mouth to another, one kiss to another. The tongues changed, the faces remained the same: blank.

 _He didn't care._

She did. He knew she did. And eventually, though the faces remained blank – he could no longer respond to them. He could no longer find the tongues, the right pressure, the right anything.

He kissed a ginger – a complete opposite of Molly, tall, bright eyed, uncaring – _rude._ And he could not get erect.

In the middle of the girl trying to coax him – it was a back alley in campus, behind the Coffee House somewhere. If he had been half in his senses, he wouldn't have picked such a spot –

That was when he heard her voice. Immediately, his mind conjured her face – her eyes, her voice, her everything – and he could not help it. He was erect. He whispered her name – thank God ginger was as high as him, or she would have noticed.

And in between his haze – Molly Hooper stumbled on them while taking out the trash.

Before, something profound had been lost. Now, he knew that he had broken something into tiny bits.

Molly of tears, Molly of pain, Molly of happiness – they all swam before him. He left ginger, he couldn't bear the sight of her anymore. He desperately went back to his apartment, shot himself one last time, and waited, patiently for Molly to come to him.

He didn't love her. He was an addict. Addicts don't love their torturers – but God would have saved him if he had loved Molly Hooper enough – just _enough._

* * *

It was Mycroft who came this time. The deal was simple: rehabilitation, degree completion, and then cases from Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade was Mycroft's colleague, it could be easily handled.

Sherlock agreed.

He agreed because of the cases. Because he hated the control drugs had on him.

Because Molly Hooper couldn't afford to cry more.

And she hadn't _come._

She didn't come to him, she didn't save him, and he was savagely angry at himself for depending on her for something like that.

* * *

 **It's a three shot. More to come.**

 **Reviews are wonderful.**


	2. Black

**ANGST WARNING.**

 **Okay consider yourself warned.**

* * *

Molly didn't like the tally system.

Things were complicated in her world, one in which fathers died of cancer and mothers decide to not care about anything much. The funny thing was, Molly didn't even know that her mother liked Dad, let alone love him enough to remain in somewhat mourning for a year. Maybe she was just used to him.

Burying her father had been another complicated affair. She had peeked into his arm, finding five tallies. Three were black. Molly wondered which were the two red ones – who had her father loved? Who had loved him back? Was it his mother? Was that why he stayed while Mum became more and more ridiculous over the years, borderline insane?

But that was all the luxury she was allowed. Molly had to make sure her mother lived, she had to get through her school, through her university, and eventually through her friendship with Sherlock. Molly Hooper, when she reached university, was someone who had made sure her mother was eating, sleeping and bathing in the first year after her father's death. After the first year, she had to make sure her mother made it alive on a day to day basis, as she became more and more reckless. Eventually, her mother remarried – and Molly had to live with her step father and step brothers.

This would all have been a fascinating story in human mundanity, but her family wasn't much to aspire to. Her step-father didn't care for her much, and her step-brothers cared even lesser. One of them tried to kiss her when she was fifteen, and she successfully pushed him away. She never complained about it because, as was reminded to her, this was not her home. Nothing was paid for by her mother, and everything was her step-father's.

There was little space for tallies in this home. She knew that her mother didn't have more than three tallies, and she was certain none of them were for her.

Molly went to university on scholarship. Her living expenses were handled by part time jobs –she did this, all of this, with the intention of having no ties to her family.

Well, she went home for Christmas because it was depressing not having family to return to.

Meena's official statement on the matter was that Molly ought to move out in entirety and never return, but Molly couldn't do that. She wasn't earning enough to live in an apartment, and dorms weren't conducive to old furniture from home.

It was a task, staying alive – an utter and complete disaster. And in spaces, she found herself. In spaces, there were bits of her.

And in one of those spaces, she found Sherlock Holmes.

He was confusing, complicated, disastrous, awful, a creature of no concerns, and someone who was disdainful of the world at large.

Molly Hooper was fascinated by him.

This wasn't the first time she had become interested in someone who was patently not interested in her: her first crush was Benjamin House, from seventh grade – someone who was the failure in class, the clown, the one driving teachers up the wall. Her first boyfriend was Chris O'Sullivan, and he had a reputation for being one of the boys who smoked off campus, who drove a bike, and who cared very little for grades.

And Molly loved too easily. She knew she did – so she kept herself away from Mr. Holmes. She was happy in her own spaces, with her ugly jumpers, laughter, smiles.

The thing about Sherlock was that he invaded these worlds – when he deemed her good, he deemed her important. Once that had been established, Sherlock was everywhere – doing homework with her, assignments with her, tests and experiments with her. He was always present, a never ending nightmare, a story which didn't seem to end.

She began to understand his mercurial temper – his anger, his frustration. His inability to accept that he was also a player in the world, not an outsider, observing inside. He would break people apart and deduce them until they were nothing more than the social conditions that had constructed them, the families they had disappointed, and the people that hurt them.

Molly dreaded the day he would deduce her.

But Sherlock never did. He never tried – he never bothered. It was comforting and frustrating at the same time. In a struggle to be heard, nobody was listening.

And then he decided to OD.

The smoking had bothered her, but not awfully. Everyone did drugs in college, so she knew there was nothing for that. She wished he didn't, but she didn't want to reprimand him – it wasn't her place. They weren't that close.

It was the first time, Molly knew. She saw him, she saw him fall, she saw his eyes fog over, and she felt a sharp constriction in her chest. She knew what had happened before she could process it. Her arm burned.

The tally formed was unremarkable.

It was _red._

* * *

She was a red head. Molly didn't waste her time questioning whether it was a natural red, didn't bother thinking of the girl as a _tramp_ or a _bimbo –_ she didn't have the time to register her anger, her jealousy, or her annoyance – because – because – _because_

Sherlock would never be hers.

His cold eyes stared at her, and she noted that he was high. He _had_ to kiss the girl behind where she worked – when he _knew_ she was going to take out the trash.

She watched, numbly.

He was so _high._

She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say – the tall, _tall_ red head – why – she was – she was – she was simply beautiful. As high as Sherlock, but the complete opposite of Molly in every way.

Oh, no goddamn _wonder_ the tally for Sherlock was red.

* * *

Meena brought her a cup of coffee.

"Everything all right, Molls?" she asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I suppose I really want chocolate…"

Meena smiled gently. Meena was rarely _ever_ gentle, so it was a mark of how awful Molly must have looked when Meena didn't snort and say, "get it yourself, idiot," or "as if there will be chocolate left in the space of me going to the refrigerator and reaching you."

"Take the chocolate, idiot. You're giving women everywhere a bad name. I _refuse_ to bring you wine."

That was more like it.

"So," said Meena. "How's college?"

"Oh, classes are great – chemistry notwithstanding."

"Don't tell me you want to drop that class," said Meena sarcastically.

"Absolutely not," said Molly, and she was surprised by how fierce her voice was.

"Not surprising," said Meena, untouched by the iron in her voice.

"What?" asked Molly.

"Molly, do you remember when you dated that boy in tenth grade?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what happened when he asked you to make some time by dumping after school lab which you did for fun?"

"I dumped him," said Molly.

"There you go," said Meena. "And that's the only reason why I would allow you wine – you aren't a complete disgrace to womankind."

* * *

Her work occupied her for majority of her remaining time. She dated, on and off – but the funny thing was, no more tallies appeared. One boy might have managed a tally, Molly felt. But she didn't want to think about it. She eventually started working at St. Bart's.

And that was when he decided to show up again.

Like an actor turning up at the third act, Sherlock Holmes waltzed into her life again – blue eyes, black hair, cruel countenance. She was thunderstruck.

Her arm tingled.

She was used to this, she had had red tallies before. They tingled when the object of affection was around her. That was why she no longer visited her Mum for Christmas.

He was turned around, looking at one of the bodies she was dissecting, and she had raised her eyebrows. All she knew about the newcomer at the time was that he was wearing a very dramatic bellstaff.

"Good morning, how may I help you?" she asked politely.

"This was _not_ a suicide," the man declared pompously. He immediately went into a tirade which proved it, none of which Molly found particularly instructive because it didn't pertain very specifically to biology. It was illuminating, knowing what the man had for breakfast and all his enemies based on his ring – and as he turned, she looked at his eyes, his handsome face.

Her arm burned.

"Um - I know, Sherlock," said Molly, slightly testily. "I mean – erm, that is - That is what my report said."

He snapped out of his reverie.

"It's – erm. It's Doctor Hooper," she said simply.

"Molly," he said slowly.

"So, - well, not that it really matters – I mean, obviously it matters from a _paperwork_ perspective – that is, erm – the amount of paperwork Lestrade _should_ have filled out – but, um - but you're the one Detective Lestrade told me about?"

He didn't say anything, choosing only to raise an eyebrow.

"Good to know," said Molly softly.

"Well, you will certainly be better than Anderson," said Sherlock.

Molly raised her eyes, slightly worried. "Well – erm, Sherlock you do know that – the thing _is –_ that you are _aware –"_

"Spit it out, Molly," he snapped.

"Doctor Anderson is from Scotland Yard – he _will_ be handling some cases…"

Sherlock didn't scoff at the concept. He smiled.

"I depend on it," he said. Molly prayed to all the Gods she knew.

* * *

She wondered what had happened to the boy from her University years, the one with the same cold cynicism and anger. She knew that he was clean right now – that after having saved him four times and maybe more, her job of keeping Sherlock alive in college had paid off to some extent.

This new Sherlock was like the first time she had met Sherlock.

Absurdly smart, bright – glittering eyes. He would deduce the world to pieces – and his mind – why, his mind.

It was the same frustrated self. Without the numbing of drugs, when he could string coherent sentences together – where she could breathe and realise he's not going to collapse and end up dead at any moment because of a needle – she noticed that he was back. He was back, he was still asking for a roll as an observer where the world demanded him to be a participant.

And with it, came all the little baggage of a Sherlock Holmes who was in his senses.

And heaven help her, she had _missed_ him.

It soon turned out that Sherlock _enjoyed_ being around Anderson for the simple reason that he could annoy him to no end.

This didn't work well with Molly, who would in turn be annoyed by Anderson for being forced to take over the cases that Sherlock considers important. It was like university all over again: they were doing tests together, eating together fairly often, and spending a lot more time together.

Molly's arm tingled.

And then he would begin to seek her out after hours, at her home. Molly took to ordering extra food as often as possible – she got very used to Sherlock doing his best to take over her life.

Sherlock Holmes was something of a friend in her life, and Molly's arm was constantly tingling. The years she had taken to get rid of him from her mind, to break apart that tally and have it faded had not worked – and she didn't know what to do.

* * *

"Molly, you are a goose and I refuse to entertain you now," said Meena when Molly spoke about her woes.

"What?" asked Molly, surprised.

"Honestly, Molly," Meena rolled her eyes. "You are a proper and complete mess. A disaster. A complete wreck. You realise that the cliché that is your life is also something that is filled with so much potential? You are living a disgusting, cloying, awful romantic comedy. Romantic comedies always end with a kiss. They skip over the part where the boy and the girl try to date, find each other toxic and incompatible."

Molly blinked.

"You know, I hate spending time with you."

Meena rolled her eyes. "I'm sure."

Eventually, Meena did manage to convince her. It didn't take a lot of effort – Molly liked him, and she realised he was clean. Everytime he made a deduction on her slab, she would almost swoon. She didn't know what to say to Sherlock when he asked her why she went red and looked away from him, because she certainly didn't think it was savoury to tell him what she was thinking.

She knew Sherlock Holmes didn't love her – but he was a difficult man. She didn't think he would have a tally for _anyone –_

* * *

"I was wondering – if you'd like… coffee."

"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

* * *

Until John Watson happened. For the first time in Molly's life, she was certain she knew that Sherlock had a tally for John Watson. She had never known, during university, who Sherlock Holmes loved.

* * *

"Molly –" Meena said, "why do you have a wine bottle which hasn't been opened for six months?"

"Well, we aren't all raging alcoholics, you know," said Molly.

"Har de har har," said Meena dryly. "Observe as I roll on the floor and laugh." She popped open the bottle, pouring herself a glass.

"It's called ROFL, Meena," said Molly, grinning. "Get with the _times,_ grandma."

"Fee, fie, fo, fum," scoffed Meena. "Look who's calling me a grandma. Molly, you own not a single pair of lacy underwear. I really wonder what you intend to do when you have to have sex and all that is available is grandma pants."

"I say, 'if that's not okay with you, I'm pretty sure my fingers can do a better job,'" said Molly, eyes glimmering.

"When did your bantering abilities become so good?" asked Meena suspiciously.

"Sherlock," sighed Molly. "You have to keep up with the man."

"And you actually say all that to him?" asked Meena sceptically.

"Well – I… _think_ it," said Molly, going red.

Meena looked at her steadily, making Molly want to punch her in the face.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I am not wasting another wine bottle talking about that absurd man. I swear, you and I must fail the bechdel test every single day of our lives because of him."

"Is this what has become of the modern woman?" sighed Molly dramatically. "Breaking her own self awareness about her conversations? Such a well educated hussy."

Meena snorted. "One day, Molly Hooper – I _will_ kill you."

* * *

Sherlock was a lot more with John these days. Molly didn't mind – it was better than him eating at her, constantly. She needed a Sherlock-detox, as Meena called it.

But the more independent he became, the more convinced he seemed convinced that he didn't need her.

"Molly, what are you doing for Christmas this time?" asked Meena.

"Sherlock and John are hosting a party. I was going to drop in on that," said Molly.

"That's a good idea, except how about dinner with me after?" asked Meena.

"Yeah, that sounds good," said Molly absently. She had a really nice dress that she wanted to try on to go for the party.

"Molly – are you alright?" asked Meena.

"Yeah," said Molly. "I don't know – I've been –"

Meena watched intently.

"It's nothing," she murmured.

"You know," said Meena. "You're very similar to him."

"Who?" asked Molly innocently.

Meena raised her eyes. "Don't joke. You know who."

Molly didn't say anything, looking outside the window distantly. "Why'd you say that?"

"You don't really talk about your problems, do you?" asked Meena.

"I dunno –" said Molly.

"You don't. We've been friends since school. You never share your problems – you find solutions, you keep it bottled in. I don't know _why –_ but you do. Might be something to do with your step family."

"I like my step-family," said Molly evenly.

"The people you like most fuck you up more than anything," said Meena with conviction. "Look at Sherlock."

Molly didn't have an argument for that.

The truth was that she was finding herself knee deep in problems, and she didn't have anyone, _really_ to talk about them – apart from Meena. They were small problems, and Molly supposed that was why she was hesitant about sharing them. She was worried about her paper, money had become a little tight recently, because her mother was unwell – and her step-father had asked her to contribute. She wasn't sure if Dave and Ben had contributed (her step-brothers), but, as petty as it was she didn't want to be the only one contributing.

On top of that, the Jim incident was something she wasn't being able to move forward from. She had _liked_ Jim even if she had called him over to make Sherlock jealous. And she felt angry at herself for missing watching _Glee_ with him – she felt angry that after only three dates, she had started feeling a sort of comfort around him.

He was good at fooling her like that.

* * *

She went to Sherlock and John's flat, and she felt quite happy for the first time in weeks. Her mother was finally recovering – Meena was making dinner, and she was wearing a really nice dress. She hoped Sherlock would notice.

Meena would find it disgraceful, but Molly knew that Meena found most everything quite disgraceful towards women. Molly was nervous about the dinner regardless – she _wanted_ Sherlock to notice.

She enjoyed the double take Lestrade gave her when she took off her coat. She was careful enough to put a band around her tallies. Mrs. Hudson was talking to her about her hip when Molly made an unfortunate joke –

"Don't make jokes, Molly," said Sherlock sharply.

She had no idea where it had come from. She didn't know why Sherlock did that periodically – hurt her, that is. She wondered what he was trying to prove by hurting her and what he gained out of it.

And she didn't like how much she cared about him not noticing her clothes.

And then he opened his mouth.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

Molly had a dreadful premonition that he was going to cross a line he hadn't even crossed in university.

"What? Sorry, what?" she asked.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," he went on.

"Take a day off…" muttered John.

"Shut up and have a drink," said Lestrade. Molly felt a surge of gratefulness towards him.

"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at top of the bag, perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slap-dash at best. It's for someone special, then. Shade of red echoes her lipstick - either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind. In fact, that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all - that would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn - and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing - obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."

He was taking some sort of pleasure in doing this. Showing her that she was not exempt from his deductions.

He picked out the card.

"You always say such horrible things," she whispered. "Everytime. Always. Always." Her voice broke, and she felt embarrassed.

Sherlock had never deduced her. She had been unsure why – even in university, he had not. And she had been grateful and a little miffed by it. Right now, she was glad he had spared her all those years for one major humiliation.

He struggled for a second.

"I am sorry," he said finally. "Forgive me."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John look startled at the apology, just as he kissed her.

It was at this point that a more embarrassing sound came out from the vicinity. A woman who seemed to be orgasming made a sharp entry.

"Oh! No, that wasn't! – I didn't!"

"No, it was me," he said.

"What, _really?"_ said Lestrade.

"What?" asked Molly.

"My _phone,"_ he grit out.

She had the unbearable urge to leave.

* * *

She had to ask him what was wrong – her tally was prickling uncomfortably and uncontrollably, and she couldn't bear it. She didn't want him to feel this way. She could feel the tenuous grip of the mark as it sensed the wrong – John knew. She could tell – his mark must have been prickling as well. The difference between John and herself was simple –

"Are you okay?" she finally asked. She was his friend, after all. "And don't just _say_ you are," she added, as his mouth looked ready. "Because I know what that means – looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me."

"I don't count."

John wasn't allowed to see Sherlock like this.

* * *

Sherlock had been to her apartment many times. Molly didn't kid herself – she knew it was a bolthole. He came when he was escaping mobsters, when he had to avoid major crime lords. She had no idea why her apartment was safe, but she supposed no one would consider her a threat.

"Molly, get new locks," he informed her.

"Never really feared for my life until I met you," she muttered.

"Then you should have got new locks in uni," he said.

"Ha-ha-ha," she said dully. She rubbed her neck. "Well, you know where to go," she said.

"Molly –" he said, sounding unsure.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she said. "And maybe one day, I'll get to go on cases with you because of your generosity?" she added, attempting to joke.

He frowned. "Why wouldn't I take you?"

"I wouldn't really fit in that setting, would I, Sherlock?" she said.

He tilted his head, regarding her.

"Anyway," she said. "I should clean up your wounds – that nose looks – fairly busted."

He shrugged. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

Molly took out her medical kit anyway. "Could you – sit down?" she asked.

Sherlock obliged. Molly got to work – and her arm tingled. His eyes lingered on her arm – he must be uncomfortable with the proximity, she realised. He was extremely still – as if forced. Molly could feel the tension just beneath her fingers.

It took an age – there were many things gone completely wrong. He had managed to live, but it was a close thing. She felt her breath ghosting on his hair as she worked the ribs – his chest was bare in front of her – excepting a strip that he had tied around his tallies, for which she had turned around. Molly could feel was a burning pain at the back of her throat and on her arm.

Once she was done, she didn't say anything. She had to leave. She couldn't handle his breath – his presence. She walked away – into her room, changing into pyjamas. "Dinner?" she asked quietly.

He didn't say anything. Molly was quiet as she cooked beans and mashed potatoes – she couldn't hear his brain working a mile at a time, like she always could.

"Sherlock?" she asked uncertainly. "Is something wrong?"

She approached him. He was standing near her book shelf, skimming titles. She looked up at him – and his eyes were ice again. She wanted, very badly, to reach out to this man – this man who was always in pieces when she saw him. She knew intrinsically that he needed an intimacy that she couldn't give – so she reached out, physically.

She held his arm. "Dinner," she whispered.

* * *

She was supposed to sleep on the couch, but she was reading. She often found herself rereading _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ when she was worried or stressed – and it was only _that_ one. The others were read on a varying degree of troubles, but _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ was read when things couldn't get worse.

And yes, Molly had a scale.

She had to keep herself awake – she had a feeling Sherlock was going to have night terrors. As she started nodding off – she heard it from her room:

" _John,"_ he said.

Molly abandoned her book and everything with it – she rushed to the room, opening the door. "Come on Sherlock – it's okay. You're alive, you're fine," she muttered hurriedly, gripped his arm.

His body was seized up, sweaty. He wasn't wearing anything – but Molly didn't have the time to register the shock of seeing his tallies. "Sherlock, Sherlock – _Sherlock!"_ she cried. "Come on, come on, comeoncomeoncomeon –"

She had to wake him up. And then he opened his mouth again –

"Molly," he said.

As clear as day.

Molly was so surprised she stepped back, abandoning her mission. Had he woken up? What had happened?

"Molly," he repeated – and twisted, all over again.

The second time made her forget her shock. She jumped on the bed, and shook him. "Sherlock! Come _on!"_

His eyes flew open.

"Oh, thank God –" she breathed. "It was just a night terror, Sherlock – just a night terror – you're fine. You're at my flat, John is alright, Moriarty is dead – everyone is alive – and – "

He kissed her.

He didn't kiss her with finesse or gentleness, he kissed her with hunger and fury. He kissed her with a demand for the intimacy that she thought she couldn't give him.

"Molly," he growled this time, against her lips.

Molly's body tensed up. She backed out of the kiss and searched his face. "What do you need?" she asked.

"You," he said fiercely.

He kissed her again, pressing on top of her – Molly didn't know what else to do. His tongue flicked against her lips – just barely, and she burned for more. He looked at her perfunctorily, waiting for some sign, a signal. She nodded shortly, and he continued to kiss her.

"Sherlock – your – your tallies," she groaned.

"One for John. Scar for someone. Mother's is gone," he said briefly.

"No – I mean." he bit her neck. "Cover – cover – them – why don't you?" she gasped.

"No," he said shortly. His fingers reached clumsily under her shirt and she burned as he continued to kiss her. He hurriedly stopped, going down to remove her jeans. He might have ripped off the button – she was certain he ripped off a button, and her head swam.

He reached for her shirt, but she shook her head.

He tilted his head at her.

"Not – not my shirt," she clarified.

He frowned.

"I can't," she choked out. "Not to you. I can't."

He didn't say anything. She didn't know what he was thinking – what he wanted. But before she could convince herself that this was a terrible idea, that he was emotionally vulnerable, that this was wrong – he was kissing her again, and her mind went blank.

* * *

Sherlock was flung across the bed. Molly watched him breathe.

Whatever pent up frustration there was, it was gone. He was sleeping soundly, and Molly – Molly had never felt so small.

She didn't know why she felt so – uncomfortable in her own skin. She touched her face gently.

He had _needed_ it.

 _It,_ she reminded herself. _It, it, it, it, it, it._

And that was when she left for the couch.

* * *

 _It_ begins to happen often.

She doesn't always want it to, but she can feel it beginning. It's always on bad days – or during frustration. When Mycroft doesn't have new information Sherlock can put on her living room wall, when he's seen the news and it's adding to the story of the dead detective who was a fraud.

She saw his knuckles go white on the TV remote when he saw John in a brief camera angle.

That day he slammed her against a wall and made his way downward.

The sex, itself, was amazing. She had some inkling of Sherlock's sexual exploits in University, but she was amazed at how good he was at the act itself. He noted everything – shelved it all away – and sometimes – sometimes, she could swear that he was doing things to make her happy.

Her thighs were her weakness, and not many boyfriends had realised this. Funnily enough, Jim had been the only other one – which didn't say a lot for her choice in men.

It was absurd. It was cruel – it was more than Molly's heart could take.

She could never bear staying in bed for too long after they were done. She walked away as fast as he slept, skulking out in some walk of shame. Occasionally, the urge to call Meena and tell her everything would be unbearable – but she wouldn't do it. She knew she couldn't. Meena thought her general – well, _state_ was because of Sherlock's death.

The dead man living was the one who had taken her peace of mind.

And on top of that, her tally remained unshiftingly red.

She never took off her shirt in front of him – she couldn't. That was the last wall left, and he would destroy her like a battering ram.

It reduced the scope for his own prowess in bed – and ultimately, she knew it would irritate him enough for the demand to be made.

He grasped her full sleeved T-shirt, and she made a bid for his attention. "No," she said, as she had said the first night.

There was something like a flash of pain in his eyes – and it was gone within the second. He got off her, and walked to her cupboard, knowing exactly where to find the arm warmers she kept just for this.

"Go," he said simply, throwing it at her.

Molly blinked at him, wanting, for some reason, to cry. She turned away from him and dragged her sleeve up, carefully putting the arm warmer in its place.

She turned back to face him, and he was looking at her with such a curious expression on his face that she almost hid her face in her arms again. She sat up on the bed, against the bed rest. And then he did something completely unexpected –

He kissed her. But not the way he normally kissed her – not as a lead towards sex.

He _kissed_ her.

It was terribly gentle. She felt his lips move carefully between hers, his tongue did not reach forward for more. She didn't know how to respond, so she waited – for the moment to pass, for the demand of gentleness to end.

He continued – his arm reached for her face, massaging the back of her head, in her hair.

It was more than she could handle.

She broke away, and smiled nervously. "Um – no new leads?"

It was a clumsy cover up, but he took it. She thought, for a second, that his eyebrows creased, but she ignored herself. She couldn't afford for him to find out. She couldn't. She _couldn't._

He was back to kissing her with the same frustrated anger that she could handle.

She leaves as soon as he falls asleep.

* * *

She's caught between loving going home and hating it.

When they talk about cases, about science, about books, about anything which doesn't involve kissing, Molly can breathe. Whenever he talks about new leads, when she interjects with a witty comment and he smiles dryly – she's fine.

As soon as he steps closer, she needs to prepare herself mentally.

Once she is done with that, she has to engage in the act itself. And it's _amazing –_ Sherlock is perhaps the best she has had yet, and she can lose herself easily in that. It's the bit afterwards that's hard.

Who knew she would be the distant one?

* * *

She takes to wearing an arm warmer at all times over her tallies.

He gets very passionate in moments. When the frustration becomes too much – he would tear her shirt off without preamble, without warning. She can't be caught unawares – it would hurt too much.

So she wears the damned thing at all times. She even spends extra to buy some of the nicer, prettier ones which she can wear during warm days.

Her tally for him remains _red._

* * *

She knows he has to leave soon. It's close to a month now, his injuries are mostly healed, his rehabilitation is over. He's fit as a fiddle – the news stories have slowed. Funnily enough, the sex hasn't – which just makes Molly burn all over.

Mycroft has collected whatever information he could.

He will leave soon, she knows. She has noticed the way he has been covertly collecting small things that he might need.

She can't find one of her arm patches.

* * *

It's his last day at the apartment – he's ready to leave. She's brought him one last hand for experimentation, and he's busy in the kitchen. He has to leave somewhere around one at night and Molly has mixed feelings about this. She knows he has to go – and she's glad. She can't hold herself back for much longer, and once the penny drops, her biggest regret would be allowing herself to have her heart broken in this way.

But he would _leave._ Sherlock gone – Sherlock gone is something that she can almost not bear.

"Yeah, hi," she says as she picks up her mum's call.

" _Molly! How are you?"_ she asks.

"Good," mumbled Molly. Sherlock wasn't really paying attention to her.

" _How's work?"_

"Um – quiet, these days."

" _What about that detective who died?"_ asks her Mum, coughing. The stupid bout of her diseases never seems to end – the doctors can't seem to find the cause. Last Molly heard was that she was down with pneumonia. She gets periodic calls from the doctors, because she'd rather have her tell them directly. " _Didn't he work with you?"_

"Yeah," said Molly quietly.

" _Well?"_

"Well, _what,_ Mum?" asked Molly, irritated.

" _Don't you have anything interesting to say about that?"_

"No," she grits out. Sherlock is looking at her. She can feel it.

" _In any case. David has a new case, did you hear? Some fancy business man and his lawsuit."_

"That's great," Molly says, her voice catching in her throat.

 _"_ _He's doing so_ well, _Molly! He's even got a girlfriend and everything – and he keeps getting us these silly presents. We tell him not to, but he hardly ever listens – you know how he is."_

"Yeah," Molly says, shutting her eyes tightly. Sherlock is standing in front of her, and she doesn't know what else to say. Molly had never been very fond of David – he was the one who had tried to kiss her when they were younger.

 _"_ _You should also date, Molly. It's silly for you to be moping about like this."_

"I know, Mum," said Molly. She's choking up – her eyes burn just as much as her arm does.

 _"Molly, you've been disappointing us a little, darling – I wish you would just do what you wanted, instead of stick in a morgue and cut up dead people. And your brothers! They're so happy, both of them – doing absolutely amazingly. You should take a leaf out of their book, darling, you really should –"_

Sherlock is watching her like a hawk. A very dramatic tear squeezes out of her eye.

 _"_ _Molly, hang on, your father wants to speak to you –"_ A pause.

" _Molly?"_ comes his voice.

"Hi Dad," she says, ignoring the way the second word catches in her throat as it always has.

 _"_ _I was wondering if I could talk to you, dear. Your mother's medical bills – well – you know how it is,"_

"I'll take care of it," she said shortly.

" _It's about –"_

"I'll take care of it," she said forcefully. "D-dad, I have to go –" she couldn't bear Sherlock looking at her like that. He had kneeled down to her level, his head tilted to one side.

" _But Molly, about the bill –"_

"Bye," she said, cutting the call.

She was sobbing in earnest almost immediately. She didn't know why it always affected her so strongly – she didn't know what to say – what to do – how to breathe – how to get rid of Sherlock's colour changing eyes from boring into her soul – deducing everything into one thousand pieces and more.

If Sherlock's life was an effort to be excused from the boredom, Molly's was a function of her inability to be heard.

He didn't say anything as she sobbed in an ugly way. She breathed in deeply, wishing him away, and then he touched her arm.

She didn't register it at first, but he was peeling away her sleeve.

The touch of his finger burned more than whatever her mother had done to her arm. She screamed very softly – "Sherlock _no_ – please, _please -_!"

He didn't say anything, continuing to remove the sleeve up to her forearm. She fought back anxiously, a deer caught between lights – her arm squirming away from his iron grip.

" _PLEASE, Sherlock,"_ she cried, her tears spilling without regard for her dignity.

His eyes swooped to her, and she saw his steady look. The icy blue had never been more full of a certain kind of Sherlockian empathy that Molly couldn't place. She quietened immediately, understanding the weight of his actions. `

She continued to cry as he took of the arm warmer underneath her sleeve.

She waited, wanting to hide from this entire situation. She couldn't _do_ this – she couldn't – couldn't – couldn't.

He looked at her arm, and she noticed the brief shock? Worry? Pain? Amazement? … _Anger?_

One scar, nine tallies, _eight_ red.

Molly didn't know what she should say to him, to his steady stare into her eyes, asking questions without phrasing them. The silence was something she had never before experienced – _asking_ her what happened instead of ignoring – or silencing – or blatantly avoiding.

What should she say? No one had ever loved her? That she was that unlovable a creature?

"Meena," she said quietly.

He didn't say anything, continuing to grip her arm.

"The black one," she clarified unnecessarily. He still didn't say anything.

"I – well. My Dad – he died when I was young – and I lived with my Mum. I don't – neither of their tallies went black. I guess my Dad felt tied down by me, and I can – can't really ever tell about my Mum," she said – her eyes tear up again, and she allows them to.

"I – some boyfriends. I don't – they're sort of gone now – and a couple of best friends. Well, um – sort of best friends, anyway. I don't – know – what,"

She was crying all over again. She hated doing this – she had never done this. Never shown them to anyone, not even Meena. She couldn't breathe, with the way his eyes looked at her. He reached for her, his grip still steady on her arm. His other hand pressed at the nape of her neck, as he kissed her.

There was that gentleness again – that horrible, painfully _intimate_ gentleness. Before she could pause for a breath, break away, make sure she didn't get hurt again interminably, his hand cradled her cheek, blocking her escape. This time, he didn't bother tearing off her clothes – every single button was opened, one by one by one.

And she couldn't breathe again.

"Breathe, Molly," he said gently.

She took a deep breath, in and out. She began to slowly shrug her shirt off, and he helped her – his touch feather light on her shoulders.

The bright red tallies glittered against his single black one.

He kissed her, his hands in her hair. She could feel Sherlock work his way into her skin, into her body.

* * *

At around nine, she had made her mind up to shift to the couch again. Sherlock had to leave in three hour's time – it didn't make sense – to – to – to do this.

But as she half got up, his grip on her arm became iron again.

He wasn't sleeping. He might be across the bed, eyes shut, facing the ceiling.

But his arm gripped hers.

She returned to bed.

He didn't try to pull her close, to make sure she would not be able to breathe again at the intimacy itself. He let her sleep.

Molly had made peace with her loneliness a long time ago. By the time she was in University, the ease of loving someone was good enough to dull the sting of never having it reciprocated. She had never minded – she preferred her own company. When she was by herself, she could smile.

But occasionally, everyone feels lonely. Everyone wants someone to sleep next to each other and not feel – _uncomfortable._

* * *

Sometime around three, she woke up. The bed was completely empty, but it was her arm that woke her up. It was burning.

She dragged herself up into a sitting position, worrying for his safety, for whatever he had gotten himself into this time when she noticed what had happened:

The tally turned _black._

* * *

 **Reviews are in the ten commandments as the most divine form of love.**


	3. Scar

**I'm sorry I'm a little late, but I hit a block where this story is concerned. Thank you for all those reviews, I loved so many of them. Incidentally, devilgrrl gave such a nice analysis in her comment that I've used it in the fic.**

 **There's also a continuation error that I didn't notice: Molly should have a scar for her father. I've fixed that now, and thanks Aphreal for point it out!**

 **Anyway, I think I had one more thing to say - I know the tally system doesn't _work_ perfectly, and there's a certain amount of hand waving in this chapter. Part of it is a failure on my part as writer to make it make sense perfectly, and the other part is AUs like this being complicated and hard to work with. **

**GUEST 1: Thank you!**

 **GUEST 2: Hahahah, thanks :)**

 **GUEST 3: I generally DO deliver on angst, it is true XD.**

 **SherlollyShipper: Your impatience is touching XD. Here's the next chapter.**

 **Unicornlover123: Here's minor relief for your pain 3**

 **Mia: Thank you, and I hope it was up to standard.**

 **GUEST 4: For his mom, and his dog. His dog's turned into a scar though.**

 **GUEST 5: Thank you :D**

* * *

He had never considered exactly how horrible the tally system was.

For him, it was both a convenience and an inconvenience. Having liabilities on your sleeve was one aspect, knowing the liabilities of others was entirely another. He had never really considered what happened when the very intimate working of your regard for people was displayed.

It wasn't an inconvenience – it became a reminder. A proof of pain – instead of your affection for someone being something to know, privately, internally – it was pasted out for you to see. Your conviction and belief in your relationship would never be valid. Marrying someone without a tally for them would become impossible. The internal conflict of the blasted thing wasn't something out of a romantic novel; this wouldn't be something that an author would be able to put a positive spin on, because once you knew what the tallies were, they were your monsters. Your ghosts. Your shadows, defining every single sunny day.

No wonder it became popular to hide them. He hid them out of convenience – Molly must hide them to keep herself away from them, to distance herself. Or to avoid the pity of others.

"Something on your mind?" asked Mycroft coldly.

"Nothing you haven't already considered," said Sherlock.

"Somehow, I really doubt that," Mycroft said, watching the landscape pass outside the window of the car.

Sherlock remembered every detail of Molly – everything. He had deduced her over and over again, in an effort to find the root cause of that happy loneliness that baffled him. It had never made sense – something that had eluded him for years.

His fingers clenched into a fist when he remembered her arm.

The red was incomprehensible, unimaginable. Molly was so _good._ She was so _kind,_ so capable.

Sherlock snorted to himself. He sounded like a lovelorn _sap._

The complexities of human emotions often went beyond his grasp, but it didn't make sense for no one to have ever noticed Molly enough to merit a black tally on her arm. It didn't make sense that she had maintained the red, through hell and high water. It took a special kind of idiocy – _strength,_ his mind said traitorously – for someone to continue with the red. To continue loving, in spite of _terrible_ odds.

How could someone not love Molly Hooper?

She was inexhaustibly interesting, which was rare, in this world of IQs in double digits. Her interests were wide, varied – she could talk about literature, poetry, music, about death, about biology. She was always conscious of what she said, of how she phrased herself – stumbling over her words, at time. An almost crippling social awkwardness, which didn't stop her from talking to people. She hummed when she baked, and she baked well. There were monetary advantages to having Molly Hooper around – she cooked well, and she was good at managing things like grocery shopping. She gave body parts to people who needed them for experimentation.

There were emotional advantages to Molly Hooper, as well – she may be unable to comprehend intimacy due to her past with it, but she was comfortable enough with herself to not demand more. When she was thinking, she would constantly touch her hands, her fingers, and tap them. It was easy to tell what she was thinking about with such an easy tell. When she was nervous the tapping increased more, when she was thoughtful, feather light touches were on her fingers.

She bit her lip when she didn't know what to say, and if she was nervous, sometimes, there was blood. Her ability with the scalpel was unparalleled, her technique really perfect. She rarely cried – which was another advantage to the emotional aspect of loving her.

But when she did cry, Sherlock's knuckles turned white.

His arm burned. He couldn't pull his sleeve down in front of Mycroft, it would be too telling. But he knew, without needing to check – there was a second tally on his arm.

 _Black._

* * *

"Molly, can I speak to you?"

Molly looked up. It was John, and he had a strange sort of burning fire in his eyes.

"What's up?" she asked.

He dragged his sleeve down. Molly raised her eyebrows. There were five tallies on the sleeve, and out of them, four were black.

"His tally hasn't turned into a scar," said John shortly.

"Um, well – anomalies like that happen…" said Molly.

"Are you sure he's not alive?" asked John.

"I did the autopsy, John," she said testily.

"Because anomalies don't stay for so long, normally," he said. There was a genuine, strong, hopeful look in his eye.

And Molly knew she had prepared for this moment well.

"The tally isn't normally a reflection of the other person's state, you know that, right?" she said. "It's a reflection of your own internal state. When you can't accept the death of someone, the tally stays. When you feel pain because of them, when they cause you happiness, they burn or tingle respectively. It's not related _biologically_ to the person you love, it is related to your understanding of them."

"I know," said John. "I went to medical school as well, Molly."

"Then?" asked Molly.

"It's odd that more than a month has passed and the scar hasn't appeared."

Molly fell apart inside. She had to do something particularly cruel at this moment.

"One moment," she said gently.

She walked into her office, and dragged her sleeve up. She put one of her arm patches on, right up till the relevant strip of skin that she needed to show John.

She walked outside. "That's my scar for him," she said simply.

He didn't say anything, regarding her carefully. The pain was palpable, inexplicable – without any definition, and without any comfort.

"If you still can't accept it," she added gently, "you could seek help, John."

And he nodded jerkily. She didn't know what to say. He walked outside the morgue, his movements robotic. As soon as he was gone, Molly curled up under one of the tables, wanting, desperately, to cry. She was trying to convince her _friend_ that he was going mad with grief, that he needed psychological help.

She had to kill Sherlock for all his friends. It was eventually going to happen that John will start thinking that Sherlock was truly dead, that he was no longer in this world. The scar would appear, eventually – after he accepted that Sherlock was dead – a mark of an internal decision to accept that Sherlock was no longer in this world.

The tallies didn't always work in the way they were supposed to, it was true. The only time the tally made a biological connection to the person it existed for was when… the other person loved you back. And this was an internal state on the part of the person involved, not yours.

And Molly would have the burden of scarring herself just to prove that yes, Sherlock Holmes was dead. He was very, _very_ dead.

Her arm burned again – it had happened more and more recently, with whatever she had had to do to prove Sherlock's death to her colleagues. She had to take a knife and scar herself very strongly to make sure she could tell them what, exactly, had happened on the roof had not been a lie.

* * *

Meena had started coming over almost every day after Molly opened her door for her. She hadn't been able to, for a month, because of Sherlock, but now she needed her friend.

They'd have wine and chocolate, and Meena would never make comments about how glad she was that they were talking about things other than men.

"So, how's work?" Molly asked.

"It goes," shrugged Meena. "I honestly think you made the right choice. Dealing with living people is the worst."

"Hey, you get to save them before they die," said Molly, her eyes trained on the TV.

"Sometimes I think they would prefer to die just to prove me and my hypothesis wrong," said Meena darkly.

"The drug trails?" asked Molly.

"We're managing," said Meena. "I was actually wondering if you could come in and consult on that. We have some issues to sort out there –"

And Meena would be off. She started bringing Molly in for consultations a lot more, because Molly's expertise in the chemistry of the body was beyond comparison. Meena herself wasn't very shoddy with organic compounds. Meena wasn't shoddy at her job at all, actually. She was smart, and with a meticulous mind for trial and error.

"You know," said Meena, as she watched the nine o'clock crime show that was coming, "one of these days the creators of these shows should really call us for consultation. I think they would be surprised by how much they got wrong."

"Yeah," said Molly, considering everything that could go wrong when someone actually tried to fake their death. "No sense of reality."

* * *

Sometimes, when she was alone, she would open out the sleeves and stare at the second black tally.

It was a very tenuous connection, something with a profound importance that no one, not even Mycroft Holmes could take away from her. She refused to say the words out loud, because once she did, the connection became real – it became something that could potentially be broken.

The black almost scared her. Almost. When she found herself really terrified, she would go to her piano and play.

* * *

 _The petunias in my window sill are thriving, Miss Montague, thank you for asking. – MH_

 _You don't happen to know how much water you use on them? x M_

 _These days, not as much as you would hope. – MH_

 _Oh. That's not very nice to know. x M_

 _I wouldn't worry, Miss Montague. The more important affair on my mind is our trade deal with India. – MH_

 _And that goes well? x M_

 _Compared to the amount of water and nourishment the petunias receive? Splendidly. – MH_

Molly shoved the secure phone away. That was all she needed to know for now.

The code used by herself and Mycroft was very simple: Molly began by asking about something benign, such as flowers, or the state of his dining table – something incredibly domestic. This was normally a method to tell Molly whether Sherlock was alive.

The second aspect was something related to policy. A trade deal with India, sometimes with Belgium, sometimes with some other country. This was a report on whether Sherlock's mission was going well.

The secure phone Mycroft had given her didn't buzz everyday. It happened very occasionally, only once a month. That's all she really needed – a periodic confirmation that Sherlock was alive. Nearly five months had passed since his going, and John had stopped talking to her almost entirely.

She missed John. She went to Mrs. Hudson's house very regularly, to give the old lady company. She was angry at Sherlock and John in equal measure.

"It's nice of you to stop by," she said.

Molly sat down, taking off her coat. "I'll put the kettle on?" she asked.

"That would be nice, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. Molly had come often enough for her to know where everything was, and what to do with it. "But you needn't worry yourself over me, you know, Molly dear? I'll be fine by myself."

"I doubt _I_ will," said Molly with a wry laugh as she filled with kettle with water. "I'm a little lonely, Mrs. Hudson. I come for your company."

"A nice young girl like you, looking for company?" asked Mrs. Hudson, kindly.

"There's not a lot of room for company that isn't sociopathic, psychotic, dangerous, or former owners of drug cartels in my life," said Molly. Mrs. Hudson laughed.

* * *

She was curled up in her sofa one night, working on one of her researches, when the secure phone buzzed. A month hadn't passed, so she was alarmed at the early buzz.

 _The diplomacy meeting with China has gone very well. Chinese officials might be coming to England very soon. – MH_

Molly's eyes widened. She typed back furiously:

 _Are they coming for work? x M_

 _Partly, yes. At least, that's what they have told_ me. _– MH_

 _What else are they coming for? x M_

 _I suppose sightseeing. The view from London is supposed to be marvelous, wouldn't you say, Miss Montague? – MH_

Molly bit her lip.

 _Gorgeous. x M_

She tossed the phone away again and got to work. She had to go to the grocery store and pick up some food for him to eat. Eight months since his return… and Mycroft's petunias had been rarely watered in that period. She picked up pasta, meat, lettuce, ingredients for pancakes in the morning, cereal, and whatever else she could get. Even if he didn't turn up tonight, at least she would have restocked her larder.

When she came back to her apartment, it was still very empty, and quiet silent. Toby had gone off somewhere (presumably, sleeping on her side of the bed).

She began to cook dinner. Some white pasta, along with garlic chicken, she decided fervently. Salad with a lot of greens, because he wouldn't have been getting a lot of fruits and vegetables.

"You know, you'd have a lot more luck making me take vitamin supplements," came a deep baritone.

Molly jumped.

"Christ, Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

"You didn't get new locks," he said.

"Nice to see you too," she said, annoyed.

He smiled shortly. He didn't look good – his hair had become too long. He wasn't wearing his customary bellstaff. Molly had never seen him in jeans and t-shirts, but that t-shirt seemed to look like it had seen better days.

Molly didn't say anything about her tingling black tally.

"I was wondering if Mycroft would have told you about my coming. Hearing you cook what looks like a meal for an army made the deduction simple."

"You could, I dunno – tell me yourself," said Molly.

"Too risky," he said. "I've instructed Mycroft to keep you updated. Has he been doing so?"

"Yes," she said. "You're both a bit paranoid."

"And you still haven't changed your locks. I think you could use a little paranoia. I told Mycroft to assign a security detail on you."

"Oh, is that the black car that's been following me?" asked Molly pleasantly.

"And if it hadn't been?" asked Sherlock dryly. "If it had been another notorious super villain?"

"I was fairly certain it was Mycroft. Balance of probability and all that."

"You could have just asked him," he said.

"And risk breaking a thousand codes? I doubt it. It took me so long to get a proper hang of the one we use right now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So… have you… been well?" she asked.

A sheet came over his eyes. "I've been fine."

"Fine?" she asked.

"Yes. Would you mind if I used your shower?" he asked.

"Um – go ahead," she said. "Some of your old clothes are lying – in –"

"I know," he said.

"Er – right. Go on," she said.

He left the room, and Molly took a deep breath of relief. She didn't understand what was _wrong_ with her. Any form of intimacy just seemed to terrify her at this point. She was hoping Sherlock was in the frame of mind that considered this… _thing_ a liability. If he did, he wouldn't get closer. If he didn't, she'd be fine. Her heart could bear distance.

She finished making dinner by the time he was done by his shower. She put out the table, and felt better seeing him in one of his old dress shirts and suits.

"What?" he asked.

"You look more… yourself," she said lamely.

"A sentimental notion," he said.

Molly shrugged. "Come and eat, Sherlock."

* * *

He couldn't sleep.

Molly had insisted on taking the sofa, as usual. Sleeping in her bed was not very hard – it had adequate support, and was fairly comfortable. It was Molly that was the problem in this equation.

He was _hyperaware_ of her being in the other room.

His finger traced his tally for her over and over again. He didn't know what he was supposed to do.

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect on the losing side._

He climbed out of bed, pacing the room. She had given him cookies and ice cream for dessert, with an apologetic, "I bake when I'm stressed." He didn't complain. They were delicious. She must have been very stressed recently, because her baking had become very good.

He wanted to tear his hair out. Molly looked inexplicably tempting in her pink pyjamas ( _favourite,_ he thought with a certain amount of anger). She looked like she'd been through a lot. She looked _exhausted._ He had never seen her look so worn out and tired.

It wasn't difficult to deduce what had been going on in her life. Her apartment was an open book. The biscuits in her larder suggested that she'd been to see Mrs. Hudson a lot. John hadn't been contacting her very much. The updated medicine cabinet made him thoughtful. Along with what looked like a first aid kit that could manage quite well in a situation of extreme trauma (an investment that was probably prompted by his existence on planet earth), there was a small bottle of sleeping pills. The medication wasn't particularly addicting or dangerous, but sleeping pills were never a good sign.

The black tally tingled every time she laughed.

He had known Molly had cared for him. He didn't know she was stupid enough to love him.

He didn't know he was _moronic_ enough to reciprocate.

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

He wished he could cut off his arm. For a second – a very brief second, he imagined what it must be to be Molly.

Why did she love so easily? He had always known she had a select set of friends. Some from university, some from work. In total, the number ten made sense. Why on _earth_ did she love them all? Wasn't it a dangerous thing, to give out your love in such a manner?

It was ridiculous that he had kept one of her arm patches, but it was his reminder of being _alive._ Molly Hooper was the only one keeping him alive in London, the one connection to his past that wasn't _Mycroft._ One thousand drug dealers, crime lords, snipers, men dealing with ammunitions the way some men filed taxes, had left Sherlock numb to London – apart from Molly.

There was a tap on the door. "Um, Sherlock?" she said.

He opened the door.

"I needed to use the bathroom," she said apologetically. There were no demands in her eyes.

Once she was in the bathroom, he wondered. She didn't deserve this.

"Sherlock, is something wrong?" she said.

"Why do you have sleeping pills?" he said with speed.

She blinked.

"Um. Well, it's been a stressful few weeks."

He frowned.

"I don't know. I just can't find it in me to sleep these days," she said.

That didn't sound promising.

"Plus, I need them. The sofa isn't conducive to sleeping."

He froze.

"Take the bed," he said.

"What?" she said.

"Take the bed," he repeated. "Don't be slow, Molly."

"I can't help it, being around you," she said with a smile. "Sherlock I'm not entirely sure where you have been sleeping in recent months, and I'd prefer it if you slept somewhere comfortable."

He bristled. "I'll be fine," he said. He left the room immediately, not leaving her with the time to register exactly what had happened.

It wasn't an uncomfortable sofa, but he had a strong suspicion that discomfort with the sleeping arrangement wasn't what caused his inability to sleep.

He was gone by morning.

* * *

She was unsure about where to go from that point forward.

Another couple of months had passed since he had visited her unexpectedly, and left just as unexpectedly. She will admit that she was confused at his leaving, even more at his visiting, and most of all by the fact that Mycroft Holmes seemed very exasperated by his brother on text. She absentmindedly touched her black tallies, quite by herself. The silence was always comforting – solitude was very good company.

Did he expect a romantic relationship? Were they going to shag and be done? Was there going to be commitment involved?

Did he _want_ a romantic relationship?

She doubted it. She doubted he wanted anything. In fact, after his last visit, she didn't think he would want to acknowledge it. Hell, even _Molly_ hadn't acknowledged it. She hadn't even said the word involved in the change of colours to _herself._

"Hi Molly," came a voice, snapping her out of her reverie.

She blinked to see John Watson.

"Oh, hi John!" she said warmly. "How have you been? Heavens, it's been nearly a year now."

"I know," he said ruefully. "I've been well."

"You have?" she asked earnestly.

"Yes," and he did it again. Smiled.

"Well. Um – last time we met –"

"I know, it's just short of a year since Sherlock's death, Molly," he said gently.

Molly didn't want to smile, but she did. "I really like seeing you happy. Have you been to see Mrs. Hudson?"

"No," he said. "Not yet. I can't. One step at a time."

Molly bit her lip. "She misses you," she said.

"I know," he said. "How's your research?"

And Molly launched into what she was studying. John commented with his own work periodically, and Molly encouraged him.

"Um, do you want to get some coffee?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Yes," he said finally.

Molly grabbed her bag. They walked together in companionable silence to Molly's favourite coffee house. She watched the way the city passed them by in an odd sort of mix of noise and silence. It was interesting being quiet – particularly with company.

"How have you been?" he asked once they were seated.

"Um – busy," she said. "Lots of work. Meena keeps dragging me all over town, obviously."

"You're looking exhausted," he told her frankly.

She smiled tiredly. "I know. People have been saying that to me. Most recently my mum."

"I never thought of you as having family."

"I have a step family. And a mother," said Molly shortly. "Not exactly people you visit on Christmas. Have you… been visiting people on Christmas?" she asked tentatively.

He smiled again, this time with a certain amount of comfort. "I did meet someone," he said.

"Yeah?" asked Molly.

"Mary. Mary Morstan," he said.

"I like people named Mary," nodded Molly. "Reliable name, that."

John laughed.

"Let's order some coffee?" she asked. He nodded.

"It's good to see you again, Molly," he said as she peered at her menu.

She blushed. "You too, John."

* * *

She came home really late one night in November.

It had been a very, _very_ long day. After a shift for nearly ten hours at Barts, she had to go and visit her Mum. Mum was in another hospital, practically across the city. She managed to make it in time – her Mum was quiet when she saw Molly.

"Always wearing the same frumpy clothes," she murmured to herself. "No sense of regard for yourself – Molly, please stop cutting up dead people. I hate it – I hate you for doing that."

And Molly had swallowed the lump in her throat.

Her Mum was dying, that much was obvious. Misdiagnosis on misdiagnosis didn't help this at all, obviously. Molly was shouldering all the bills.

Hepatitis. Paired with low immunity and tendency for colds.

Well, it had progressed to a point where it couldn't be helped at all.

Molly clenched her jaw when she thought about. Her Mum murmured to herself, unaware of her company.

"Never liked it. Hated you for it. He left me with you. Where's David? I want David…"

Mum's tallies had increased by one. Molly didn't know whether it was for David or for her step father.

Her step father had gone home. He'd asked Molly if she could keep an eye on Mum for a while, and Molly had. Molly had, Molly had, Molly had.

It was a _very_ long day.

It wasn't always this terribly long. The shift at Barts was possibly what had her collapsing.

"What a tragedy my life is," she said to Toby. "Right out of a soap opera, wouldn't you say, Toby?"

The cat purred.

"Mmh. Exactly. What a mess. It's so dramatically tragic that I can't even feel sorry for myself."

She took off her shoes and her coat.

"Oh, heaven on earth," she said, turning on the machine for messages.

 _"_ _Hello dear! I was wondering when you were coming over next? Ring me when you feel up for it! But don't bother if you're busy, I know your Mum is unwell."_ Mrs. Hudson. Molly would visit this Saturday. It had been too long.

Besides Meena, Mrs. Hudson was her only friend, after all. John hadn't been talking that much, apart from that meeting. She had no idea about when she would meet Mary.

She collapsed on the sofa. Toby meowed softly. She had so much work to do – paperwork was left, post mortems to be done, endless blood work panels, and her research.

"Just a few minutes," said Molly, cuddling into herself on the sofa.

Just a few minutes.

* * *

She was sleeping on the sofa when he came.

There was nothing covering her, her mouth was a little open. Her face looked haggard.

Sherlock surveyed the small woman quickly. She'd lost weight – a lot of it. She'd not been sleeping, and she had the unmistakable signs of working herself too hard. He felt angry at her for making these terrible decisions regarding her health. Molly shuddered as he watched her.

He noticed that her vegetables were uncooked, that she hadn't been baking.

Was she… not eating?

Molly Hooper seemed to have a death wish. She looked so small in the sofa, carefully curled up. Her cat wandered around, proud as a peacock.

One of Molly's sleeves slipped upwards, and he noticed all those tallies. He spotted the two black ones, feeling the sinking feeling in his stomach settle. However, there was an extra tally – a scar, rather. Out of the ten he had seen (including the scar for her father), Molly seemed to have an eleventh.

His first thought was a blindingly red hot mixture of pain. John would tell him that this was something akin to jealousy, but Sherlock preferred not to think about it that way. That was when he noticed that it didn't _look_ like a tally scar. It was too jagged, too deep – she had made it _herself._

His second thought was panic. Molly Hooper hurting herself made him incomprehensibly angry.

However, it made no sense to have one scar. Deducing logically, removing the element of sentiment that was clouding his logic – he could see that she wasn't doing this regularly. She had done it with something else in mind. His eyes swept over her, making quick deductions, and across the apartment.

The image of John came to his head without provocation.

Molly must have done… _that_ to convince him. She had taken every measure possible to make his death real.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, unsure of what to do. After – after his time in Russia, Africa, and how many other countries, the entire ' _sentiment'_ thing made lesser and lesser sense. There were monsters on every corner of the world, monsters that took advantage of creatures like Molly and John. Monsters that could destroy her little neck without thinking about it twice, who could drown John without considering the fact that John Watson being dead might have lead to murder on Sherlock's own part.

He scooped her up, carrying her to her room. There were fresh sheets on her bed.

"Sh'lock?' she murmured as he put her down.

He didn't say anything.

"You're back," she said softly. She didn't open her eyes to look at him even once.

"How do you know it's not someone else?" he asked.

"No one else does sh- shtuff – like this," she said sleepily. She turned away from him.

"Stuff… like this?" he asked.

"This. Breakin' an' enterin'," she said. "You musn't have… eaten. I'll just get some –"

"You're asleep, Molly," he said patiently.

"No," she protested as he threw a blanket over her. "No-oo. I am very a'ake. Just watch, Sh'lock 'Olmes. I'm gettin' up."

"You're staying in," he said firmly.

"Fine," said Molly quietly. She buried herself into her blanket. "You also sleep."

"I'll take the sofa, Molly," he said.

"No, don't do that," she said. "C'mon. I'm bad at… this shtuff. This whole – bein' – close to people. I get awkward, they get – what'sh the word? Weird. My Mum is dyin'. She says she hates me."

Molly was talkative when she was sleepy. She tugged at his sleeve.

"C'mon, Sh'lock. I promise to… keep your virtue intact."

He smirked. "I'll stay," he promised.

"Good," she said. "Good. Good. Go –"

She was asleep. He was surprised at how endearing it was.

* * *

When she woke up, she was alone. She could have sworn she slept on the sofa – she had the most curious dream about a gigantic lizard attacking London. Sherlock had to solve the case on it, and John was furious about the fact that she didn't tell him he was alive. Mary was holding him back, and for some reason, the 'Mary' Molly had imagined looked very strikingly like Kate Winslet. The lizard turned out to be a genetic mutation created by Moriarty, and Sherlock lost his mind when he saw Moriarty.

It was a lot vaguer than this – the details came in bits, and never fit the entire picture. That was the general gist of the dream.

The second, (vaguer, and more impossible) dream was Sherlock coming into her apartment and carrying her to her room. She was sure she said some embarrassing things.

She got out of bed groggily. Padding to the door, she walked outside to find Sherlock sleeping in a sitting position in one of her chairs.

"Sherlock?" she said loudly, genuinely surprised.

"Good morning," he said without opening an eye lid.

"Hi –" she said, still surprised. "You're here? That wasn't a dream?"

"Don't be slow, Molly." Not a peep.

"Oh, wake up, Sherlock," she said. "How are you here? Why didn't Mycroft warn me? Have you eaten? Have you slept? How is the mission? Did you take a bath?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Molly," he said slowly. "Go away."

Molly looked away, disappointed. "Fine," she puffed. "But come on! Have you eaten?" she walked over to his chair, and poked him.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Sherlock. "You don't plan on resting until you've taken Mrs. Hudson's entire book, do you?"

Molly jutted her chin out. "No. I mean – yes. You know what I mean."

"Fine," he snapped. "I came because of some strange activity in the States. Mycroft arranged a stopover in London. I'm leaving by tomorrow. Mycroft didn't warn you, I suspect because you haven't checked your secure phone ever since you started taking care of your mother. I haven't eaten. I _was_ sleeping. The mission is fine. I have taken a bath." She didn't bother asking him how he knew about her Mum.

"Oh," she said. "Alright."

"That's all?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes," she promised. "You look…"

He raised his eyebrows.

She bit her lip.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said.

"You bite your lip when you're nervous. What is it?"

"You won't like it," she said.

"I rarely like anything," he said curtly.

"You look lonely," she said quietly.

He didn't say anything. He looked at her, getting up. "And you look tired." He was terribly close to her, she noted with numbness. She could count the number of colours in his eyes. For some reason, neither of them were able to breach the barrier of _touch._

Molly turned away from him. "My Mum's not well. I've been taking care of her."

"I deduced as much," he said.

For a millisecond as she turned, her hand brushed across his.

* * *

 _"_ _Miss Hooper… I'm so sorry."_

 _A beat._

 _"_ You _did this! You didn't take care of her! You said you would!"_

* * *

Molly curled up in her bed, without bothering with a blanket. It was freezing winter – Christmas was on its way. She wasn't wearing anything warm, the heat in the apartment was off, and she was _freezing._

She noted that someone was entering her apartment, but she didn't pay attention to it. If it was anyone other than Sherlock it was either Meena, who was fine, or it was a murderer, and she didn't care to be murdered right now.

The person opened the door, and by the walk itself Molly could tell it was Sherlock. She didn't say anything to him, remaining curled up in the bed.

He threw a duvet over her – he didn't ask her why she was sitting in her dark apartment, freezing her arse off. She supposed he didn't need to or something. She was unsure how people operated in tragedy, even lesser how _she_ was supposed to operate in tragedy.

The scar on her arm didn't help. It hadn't even presented itself for a couple of days. Mike had let her have the time off, and Meena had visited practically every day, until she had asked her (with a lot of politeness) to go home. Molly didn't understand why she couldn't be alone, why Mrs. Hudson insisted on calling her, and why Sherlock had turned up from whatever corner of the world he had been in to be with her.

 _Don't be stupid,_ she told herself.

Regardless of _why,_ he was here.

He settled down on the bed beside her.

"You don't normally do that," she said more to herself than him.

"It's freezing. Your furnace stopped working maybe a day back, and you haven't bothered getting it fixed."

"Full points," she said dourly.

"When I was a child – well, smaller in stature and emotional stability, in any case – I had a dog."

"Sherlock, I don't want to hear about your _dog –"_ it gave her some amount of pleasure to hurt him. Meena didn't deserve cruelty directed towards her, she had been nothing but a good friend. It wasn't hard to be unkind to Sherlock, for the first time. She wanted to be _angry_ at someone – _anyone._

"Redbeard. That was his name," said Sherlock. Molly almost waited for him to finish the story, but he didn't.

She remembered the ice in her step-father's face, in the way David had looked at his step-mother. She didn't like the way they looked at her, and she didn't like the fact that she had no one left in the world. No more Christmas, she thought numbly.

She turned to Sherlock, burying herself into his chest.

* * *

 _The spokes in the wheel of a bicycle are at perpendicular tangents from the ground. – SH_

Molly smiled.

 _I know that, Mr. W. I did attend physics classes at uni, unlike someone. x M_

 _…_ _They didn't_ teach _that. – SH_

 _It was something to infer. x M_

She shoved the secure phone away from her.

The days slowly passed into months, and the months disappeared in bits and bits and bits, being reduced only to the number of times she went to pick up groceries, or nights spent with Meena.

Her mother didn't haunt her memory or anything half as dramatic as that. She missed the woman periodically, and memory had this funny way of romanticizing the death. She remembered bits of her mother which had been good to her, and then bits in which her mother had hated her. She wished she had explanations for either, but she didn't – and she didn't bother finding out.

She was a mess when the woman died. And then, inexplicably, the ridiculous bundle of complex emotions had been solved by one simple act: Sherlock had spent the night with her.

There hadn't been any sex involved, which was odder. Molly wanted to not dwell on it – but she couldn't help it. It had been a long time since she had sex, and she could easily chalk it up to hormones. However, she seemed to be maintaining some sort of fidelity to this man who had last made her orgasm in two years. She didn't know why any more than he did.

The media finally caught onto the fact that no, Sherlock _wasn't_ a fraud. It was all very late, and much too difficult to reconcile with. John had called her _once_ again – primarily so that she could meet the fabled Mary Morstan. Mary was fairly perfect for John, Molly noted, what with her grin, the twinkle in her eye, and what Molly suspected was a very sharp eye for detail.

It hadn't been a good place to be – her mother's death. She had gotten out of it very gradually, piece by piece – and the eventual discovery was not grief, or pain, or numbness.

Freedom.

The tallies didn't hold her down anymore. They didn't seem to control her every move, her breathing. She didn't know what to make of that.

Sherlock had been sending messages himself through the secure phone. He didn't do it very often, and it was often bizarre. Generally a scientific fact – or an experiment. At first she thought it was a code – but after researching every possible code and even covertly asking Greg, she had nothing. It seemed to be his way of – saying… _something._

She responded in kind – with facts, or experiments, or updates on the latest science fiction she would be reading. Predictably, she could _sense_ his scoffs at those messages.

When he _did_ turn up, Molly wasn't _surprised._

Nearly two years had gone by since he left. It would take a miracle for him not to return – even Jim Moriarty didn't make so comprehensive a crime network. And even if he _did,_ Sherlock couldn't _eliminate_ crime.

And, in true Sherlock fashion, he was _dramatic._

* * *

She had been having some muscle pain in her shoulder recently. Due to her dramatic weight loss, she had started eating healthier and doing exercise. This didn't help muscle cramps even a little bit.

She opened her locker, with every intention of calling it a night when he simply _turned_ up.

She noticed him in the mirror and nearly had a heartattack.

Unlike all the previous times, he didn't turn up in odd clothes which made him look unlike himself. He was wearing his belstaff.

He was back.

"Oh," she said softly.

"Molly," he said evenly.

"Sherlock," she said. He was looking at her with a curious expression on his face. Of course, he had been punched very strongly.

"John?" she asked.

"Who else?" he said with a sliver of humour.

"You have a way with words," she teased.

He didn't say anything. He walked up to her, and Molly took out some of her clothes.

"Did you know that when a new queen bee emerges in a hive, she "pipes" to incite her worker bees to fight for her if another queen in the hive needs killing?" she asked pleasantly.

He looked surprise. "Yes," he said.

"Shame," she said. "I was hoping to surprise you."

He smiled. A very rare, very Sherlocky, very humorous smile.

"It's good to have you back, Sherlock," she said. She didn't ask him for permission as she laced his fingers in his. He looked at her with that curious expression he wore from time to time. Molly smiled uncertainly, unsure about her next move. As she moved to remove her hand from his, he held on to it, tugging her into a kiss.

Molly pulled away breathlessly. "You know, _warnings_ are appreciated."

"By all means, as my mind to alert me when it decides to take control of my body without giving me so much as a notification," he said, his eyes trying to pick apart hers.

She searched his face. "You – um, you _know_ that you don't _owe_ me anything, right?"

"I would hardly have presumed that," he said crisply. "I am – _unsure…_ about how to – move _forward."_

Molly untangled herself from him, pushing her sleeves back, displaying her red tally marks, two scars, and two black tallies.

"I'm as lost as you," she promised.

And this time, the expression was very visible. The anger, followed by the compassion, by empathy – eventually, replaced, with dilated pupils.

She tiptoed, kissing him gently on the lips. He didn't seem to want to yield – but he gave away after a minute. It was bloody terrifying, she knew – the black could fade, her tally could fade, it could scar, _anything_ could happen. _Anything._

And yet, for some reason, it didn't seem as important as it was to kiss him – to remember the way his arms snaked around her waist, the way his tongue flicked across her lower lip, the way his hair felt under her fingers, the way her arm tingled over and over and over again reminding her that she was alive, she was real and she was susceptible to _burns._

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, and please review!**


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